The Big Book of Female Detectives by Otto Penzler

Author:Otto Penzler
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2018-10-15T16:00:00+00:00

The Bloody Crescendo

VINCENT STARRETT

TWO CIRCUMSTANCES marked the première of the new opera as notable, even in anticipation. First, and perhaps foremost, it was by all accounts a sensational musical event; something that was going to be talked about in the press and from the pulpit. Second, in spite of her recent scandalous divorce from Palestrina, Edna Colchis was going to sing—and Palestrina was going to direct her.

The murder of Mrs. Emmanuel B. Letts during the sulphurous first act was, of course, unpredictable.

From her seat in the Diamond Circle—specifically, the Hassard box (Mondays and Fridays)—Sally Cardiff watched the surge and flow of opulent Chicago, with the little smile of one for whom such spectacles were providentially ordained. When, occasionally, she replied to the remarks of young Arnold Castle, at her side, she did so pleasantly but without removing her eyes from the scene of colorful congestion.

Young Mr. Castle was cynical. “Fifty per cent of them are here to see what happens between those two,” he observed. “This Colchis now,” he continued irritably, “what do they expect her to do? Blow up in the middle of the performance?”

His cigar lighter, which he clicked exasperatingly as he talked, was a magnificent affair. It was of gold, by Lemaire, and contained everything but running hot and cold water.

“If she felt that way,” said Miss Cardiff, “she would not appear at all. But nothing will go wrong. They are both artists—and egotists.”

“As for the opera,” persisted Castle, “I suspect it has been greatly overrated. They say there isn’t a tune in the whole show. Just discord!”

She laughed lightly. “Why do you come?” Then she blushed: “Never mind!” Her smiling gaze swung to the nearer boxes and her voice fell. “Mrs. Letts is wearing her fabulous necklace tonight. You see, it isn’t a myth, after all.”

“It’s vulgar,” said young Mr. Castle. “She’s a lighthouse. Besides, it’s dangerous. In times like these she should keep her jewels in a vault. I wouldn’t feel safe with that thing in a church. Who’s the fat bounder behind her?”

Miss Cardiff said “Sh!” The fat bounder had turned his head in their direction. Mrs. Hassard answered the question. “That’s Higginson,” she said briefly.

“Get out!” cried Castle, enlightened. Everybody knew who Higginson was. He was Mrs. Letts’s secret-service department, an ex-prizefighter employed by Mrs. Letts as private detective and, if occasion should arise, slugger. The job was a sinecure, for the police also kept a friendly eye on the exits and entrances of the wealthy Mrs. Letts. It was easier to prevent an attempt upon her middle-aged person than to imagine what might happen to the heads of the department if any such attempt were made.

“He looks uncomfortable,” added young Mr. Castle.

Hassard grinned satirically. “He doesn’t like dressing up. He’d be more at home at the back of the house, talking to the fireman.”

“Do you think so?” murmured Miss Cardiff. “I was thinking that he rather liked his part.”

“He’s too fat,” observed the critical Castle. “Out of training. Soft living and locking up nights agrees with him.

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